


Even the Score

by Lady Divine (fhartz91)



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 10:44:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2106810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/Lady%20Divine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New boyfriends Kurt and Elliott travel to Lima to visit Kurt's dad over Thanksgiving, and while they're there Elliott takes Kurt out on a date that Kurt's not particularly thrilled with. Written in response to a tumblr prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even the Score

“Okay, okay, okay, I know I said that you got to pick where we went for our first date when we got to Lima, but what about me screams _bowler_ to you?” Kurt asks as he peruses the various multicolored bowling balls, cringing visibly at the idea of sticking his fingers into any of them.

“It was the best I could come up with,” Elliott chuckles at his disgusted boyfriend, walking along beside him in search of a bowling ball to use. “You were right when you said Lima isn’t exactly the cultural hub of Ohio.”

“It’s bad enough that I’m wearing a pair of shoes used by at least several hundred other people,” Kurt complains, turning one ball around on the rack to check the weight. “As it is, I’m going to have to trash the socks I’m wearing after tonight.”

“Come on, Kurt,” Elliott groans, although it’s mostly a laugh, “you’re a New Yorker now. You have to be used to dirt and grit.”

“I am…sort of…” Kurt defends his wounded pride, “but that’s New York dirt and grit. It’s sophisticated and artistic. Not like out here where everything smells like cow…”

“You said I got to decide,” Elliott interrupts, not looking forward to listening to Kurt bitch and moan all night, even if it is amusing. “It was either this or we hit up your old Alma Mater for a rousing evening of the musical _Brigadoon_.”

Kurt looks into Elliott’s eyes and sees the obvious challenge there.

“Bowling it is,” Kurt says, grabbing a ten pound ball off the rack between the palms of his splayed hands, not willing to come into too much contact with it, and carries it with a faked bounce in his step toward their lane.

“Now, you’re sure you’re okay with this?” Elliott teases when he’s found the ball he’s going to use (lucky to discover a 14-pound midnight blue bowling ball with silver glitter swirls and finger holes close enough to his size. Finding it seems like providence.)

“Well, you’ve already gotten me into the fungus-laden shoes,” Kurt gripes, putting his borrowed bowling ball down in the carousel. “I guess there’s no turning back now.”

Elliott smirks as he enters their names into the scoring computer. He presses enter and the score card flashes up on the screen above their heads.

“There…” Elliott gestures to it with his hand, “like the gentleman I am, I put you first.”

“Great,” Kurt says with an exaggerated eye roll, “thanks.” He chases his own lemon yellow ball around the carousel until he can grab a hold of it, picks it up between both hands without daring to stick his fingers in the holes, and approaches the foul line.

“Uh, do want some help with your approach?” Elliott calls after him. Kurt stops half way and grumbles _no thanks_ over his shoulder without bothering to turn around. He walks the rest of the way and stops. He stands in a plie position, his feet sliding out to either side until he’s doing a nearly unnecessary split, and then he bends over. He dangles the ball between his legs and swings it back and forth the way little kids do when they first learn how to bowl, but when Kurt does it, it causes his ass to wiggle in the tightest pair of jeans Elliott has ever seen him wear. Elliott stands from his seat to get a better view. He doesn’t want to be caught leering. Even though they’ve been friends for a while, this more serious relationship is pretty new, and he doesn’t want Kurt to think he’s a creeper…but dammit if staring at that incredible ass might not be worth getting caught.

Kurt flings the ball down the lane. It flies halfway and then lands on the wood with a hollow _thwap,_ veering to the right and heading straight for the gutter. It teeters on the edge before sliding into the trench, and then wobbles slowly the rest of the way.

Not a single pin is in any danger of being hit by Kurt’s throw.

“Shit,” he says, stomping his foot as the cage comes down and the pins are lifted and reset. “I didn’t even get one fucking pin.”

“You know, it might help if you put your fingers _in_ the holes,” Elliott suggests.

“Screw that,” Kurt says, waiting for his ball to return. “I’m not going to risk getting some type of flesh-eating bacterial infection.” The ball swoops up into the carousel, and he trudges over to retrieve it, playing the same game of chase till he manages to clamp his hands around it.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to go get some bumpers for the gutters?” Elliott offers, not even trying to mask the condescension in his tone.

“No,” Kurt snaps, lifting his ball up.

“What do you have against bumpers?”

“Bumper bowling just so happened to be the favorite pastime of the ex-who-shall-not-be-named,” Kurt enlightens him.

“Gotcha,” Elliott says with wink. “Alright. Go ahead and do your thang, sexy man.”

Kurt at least breaks a smile on his second attempt, performing his little bend-over-and-wiggle boogey that Elliott finds so appealing. This time when Kurt lofts the ball, it stays on the lane, rolling on the finger holes the whole way down, making a loud _thunkthunkthunkthunk_ noise. Kurt returns to the seats and sits down, watching his ball limp its way to the pins and hit one. The pin wobbles, then tilts, and finally falls over, but it doesn’t take any of its brothers or sisters along with it.

“And…that’s one,” Elliott announces. “One! One pin! Ah-ah-ah!”

Kurt frowns.

“The Count, Elliott?” Kurt asks with disdain. “From Sesame Street? If you’re going to make fun of me, can you at least find a more mature reference?”

“I think that making fun of you in a mature way is a contradiction in terms,” Elliott says thoughtfully, getting out of his seat to start his turn. Kurt sits and watches Elliott carelessly stick his fingers in the holes with no regard for personal safety.

“Ugh,” Kurt says, “you’re just begging for a microbial disease.”

“I choose to walk on the wild side,” Elliott says with a playful growl. He stands far back from the foul line, bringing the ball to his eye level. He looks over it at the pins, taking aim. Focused hard on the pins in front of him, he doesn’t notice Kurt’s eyes travel up the line of his tight, leather-look pants; his form-fitting, grey tank; and the open, button-down shirt he wears over it, the tails hanging around his hips, skirting his waist as he moves.  Elliott starts to move, walking forward with extreme concentration, dead-set on his target. Kurt leans out to the left – far out to the left – keeping his own eyes focused on Elliott’s toned ass as he moves, uttering a quiet _damn_ underneath his breath as Elliott slides up to the foul line and releases the ball smoothly onto the lane. It rolls in a straight line and then curves, hitting just to the right of the head pin, taking out the whole lot – all ten pins – with the one blow.

Elliott smiles to himself before he turns around, imagining Kurt’s scowl – the frown turning down the edges of his soft, pink lips; his eyes shimmering with restrained anger.

Kurt is many wonderful things, but he is also an awfully sore loser.

Their first game wasn’t spectacular, but Elliott won - a not entirely impressive 140 to Kurt’s pathetic 26.

Elliott can usually average a 210 on a good day, but Kurt’s ass in those painted-on jeans is too distracting for words.

That’s okay, because really, all that matters to Elliott is that _he_ won.

“Ugh,” Kurt grumbles, “this was fun and all, but right now I think I’d rather chew glass than do that again.” Kurt props his foot up on his knee and starts to untie his laces.

“Wait,” Elliott says, grabbing Kurt’s hands and stopping the removal of his shoes, “we’re not leaving now. We still have the lane for another hour. Don’t you want to try to even the score?”

Kurt sighs, looking up into Elliott’s pleading face - his eyes wide, lower lip trapped between his teeth.

“No,” Kurt says, continuing with the laces on his shoes.

“I’ll give you a handicap,” Elliott offers. “A hundred points, right out of the gate.”

“I still wouldn’t have won, you realize,” Kurt says, “even with your pity points.”

“Okay, why don’t we make this a little more interesting,” Elliott says.

Kurt raises an eyebrow, intrigued.

“What do you mean?”

“A friendly wager,” Elliott explains. “I’ll give you your hundred point handicap, and whoever loses has to…” Elliott’s eyes shift right and left as he tries to think of an appropriate reward, “buy the winner dinner.”

“Dinner?” Kurt asks, unamused.

“And a movie?” Elliott adds.

Kurt’s eyes dart above Elliott’s head, considering his offer.

“Dinner…a movie…and a full body massage,” Kurt says, upping the ante.

“Done,” Elliott agrees, taking Kurt’s hand and shaking it to seal the deal.

Kurt shakes his head and reties his bowling shoe.

“Here…” Elliott re-enters their names in the computer, “I’ll let you go first again.”

Kurt laughs dryly, reaching for his ball.

“You know, it’s not nice to take advantage of your boyfriend.”

Elliott sits back, preparing for the amazing show of Kurt’s wiggling ass dance, but Kurt’s whole approach has miraculously changed. He sticks his fingers in the holes and stands far back behind the foul line, a little farther back than Elliott starts his approach from. He takes a tentative step forward, walking slowly, and then slides toward the foul line, pulling his ball back and sending it down the lane with much more precision than before. It slides down the slick wood, curving at the end and sweeping across the front row of pins, knocking them all down in a rather complicated looking domino-esque fashion.

Elliott stands slowly above his chair as Kurt dusts his hands and turns on his heel, returning to his Gobsmacked boyfriend.

“What…what the fuck was that?” Elliott asks in jaw-dropped surprise.

“Uh…beginner’s luck?” Kurt responds with a shrug and a knowing grin.

 “Hey, Kurt!” A burly man in dungarees and a worn red and black flannel shirt calls to him from behind the racks of balls.

“Hey, Walter!” Kurt calls back with a wave. “How are you doing?”

“Fine! Great!” he says. “I didn’t know you were back! How long you stayin’?”

“About a week,” Kurt says. “My boyfriend Elliott and I are visiting my dad over the Thanksgiving holiday.”

Elliott steps forward, reaching out a hand to intercept the one that Walter has extended his way.

“It’s good to meet you,” Walter says when Elliott shakes his hand.

“Likewise,” Elliott says, curious to the point of bursting over what’s going on.

“You’ve still got it, kid,” Walter says, addressing Kurt again. “Are you going to be entering the big tournament on Saturday night?”

“Who knows?” Kurt says. “I just might have to do that.”

“Still got what?” Elliott asks, turning to look between Walter and Kurt. “Why would you join the tournament? You don’t like to bowl.”

Walter laughs at Elliott’s confusion.

“Are you kidding?” the man says through a series of labored sounding guffaws. “Kurt Hummel holds the 20th Century Lanes record for most consecutive perfect games in a season.”

Elliott glares at Kurt and Kurt throws his head back and laughs.

“So, that was all an act?” Elliott whines. “You were hustling me?”

“Ooo,” Walter says, catching on quickly to the reason behind Elliott’s confusion, “I’m going to let you fellas get back to your game. It’s good to see you, Kurt.”

“Good to see you, too, Walter,” Kurt manages without breaking down completely.

“So, when were you planning on letting me in on the secret?” Elliott asks, advancing on Kurt, backing him up against the seats.

“Uh, now seems like a good time,” Kurt says, holding his ground. “Do you want to forfeit now, or would you rather suffer the crushing defeat?”

“It’s still just the first frame, Kurt,” Elliott says with a shrug. “It’s still anybody’s game.”

“I doubt it,” Kurt says. “You gave me a hundred points, remember?” Kurt leans in close and whispers in Elliott’s ear. “This game was over before it began.”


End file.
